


Overcome

by jenna_thorn



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: Jossed, M/M, Written Pre-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-02
Updated: 2011-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-26 18:47:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna_thorn/pseuds/jenna_thorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hawkeye, I think there’s something wrong with me."</p><p>“That’s because there is,” Clint said.</p><p>“What?” He actually fell over, dropped to sprawl on the industrial tile floor.</p><p>Clint nodded. “Your heart’s racing, blood pressure skyrocketing. You’ve been hit with a…” Clint grinned, pretending ease while his nerves jumped, “ ... a something the chemists can pronounce and I can’t.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overcome

In a dark corner of a parking garage in a city with an international airport, a van rocked.

“Stark, goddammit, hold still!”

Stark pushed Thor’s knee to the side. “Doing yoga in an exoskeleton … Look, I’m not the biggest man in this van.”

“You’re admitting that?” Clint leaned from the the passenger side front seat and smirked into the cargo area.

“Though if we want to drop pants and have a literal pissing contest….”

“You’d lose that one, too, Stark. Again,” Coulson said.

“I didn’t lose, I withdrew from the field. For my own reasons. Wholly altruistic and patriotic reasons, in fact.”

“We value you as a person and a team mate, Tony,” Steve said from behind Thor’s elbow, “Now please sit down.”

“Tony is right,” Thor said. “The height of this building would allow a grand fountain of …”

“No, no, really, Thor. Tony is wrong, there will be no peeing today. Unless needed, in which case, same rules as discussed last time, please.” Steve patted Thor on the shoulder and glared, past him, at Tony.

Tony rolled his eyes and poked at the paper taped to the metal of the van’s interior. “ ’Expose the wanton lustfulness and decadence of the ruling society.’ “ Tony read aloud. “Whatdayathink? They planning to spike the champagne and caviar? Because they’re going to be really disappointed when all they find is an urn of over-boiled coffee and stale bagels.”

“They aren’t going to get that far,” Steve said.

“Besides, what’s to expose?” Tony shifted his weight and the van moved. Clint grabbed at the dash again and Coulson rocked gently. He continued, “How much more embarrassing and decadent can we get than televising the Kardashian wedding?”

“Hefner’s mansion?” Clint suggested.

“It’s actually tamer than you’d think. There’s a lot of T&A, but it’s mostly very vanilla and hetero-normative.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck and glanced at Coulson, who seemed to be ignoring all of them in favor of tapping on his iPhone. “Does this count as an inappropriate conversational topic yet? Because HR had a powerpoint about this.”

Coulson waved a hand without looking up. “No no, Stark. Do go on about how boring the Playboy mansion is.”

“My point is… diplomats and politicians. Long speeches and hush hush top secret negotiations about grain. Fertilizer. Beans.”

Steve narrowed his eyes. “Relieving world famine bores you, Tony?”

“Meetings bore me. I avoid the bean meetings, I don’t dress up for them.”

“From my experience, you avoid all the meetings, Stark.”

“Just the ones with you. The DARPA ones are usually good for a laugh. Or weeping. Toss up as to which.”

Coulson’s pocket beeped. “Avengers, eyes on target,” he said.

Steve pulled his cowl over his head. “Details.” Clint rolled his shoulders again and watched the mask click down in sections over Stark’s face. That would never not be weird.

“White Durango, older model, with blocked windows. Should be coming up the ramp in seven, six …”

They waited motionless as a rusting Durango passed then and continued to the top level of the structure. The shocks squeaked as Thor tumbled out the van’s back, Iron Man crowding him forward. Clint shook his bow free as they turned the corner. The SUV in question, rusty undercarriage and electrical tape holding both the muffler in place and cardboard over the windows, didn’t look particularly threatening, but then, in this day of gods and monsters and Stark’s hot rod paint job, appearances didn’t count for much.

A shadow moved overhead, so Natasha was on site and Clint smiled as he climbed onto a black Audi for better line of sight to two guys in filthy hoodies rolling gas tanks toward the roof access.

The Widow dropped near the driver's door of the SUV and pulled the woman behind the wheel out in the time it took for Iron Man to clank to where the other two idiots were struggling to tip the canisters upright. Captain America stood, in all his brightly colored and broad shouldered glory, directly between Clint and anything he could target. He stepped to the next car over as the little guy fired at the red and gold armor. The suit could take anything handheld, so Clint ignored the ping of the ricochet of the bullet and shot twice to pin the little guy, again to disarm him, then a fourth, to force back the taller guy in front of Cap.

Then he saw the hole in the gas tank.

Captain America coughed, then coughed again. Clint made a running jump, slapped a seal patch over the hole and activated the adhesive tab, then backed away, pulling Steve with him. “I’m fine,” he croaked out. The guy that Iron Man was holding at arm’s length started laughing, high and shrill.

The patch on the canister was holding, so Clint let Thor pick up the tanks for transport back to base. Natasha had the driver zip-tied and on her face on the concrete and was pulling the pinned guy free to do the same when Steve coughed again and dropped to his hands and knees.

Coulson stepped up. “Thor, accompany those to the lab; I’ll have Pym meet you there. Iron Man, get the Captain to Medical fastest. Hawkeye, Widow, prisoner transport. Let’s find out what is in those canisters.”

\--::--

Clint and Tony stood shoulder to shoulder at the observation window into interrogation, watching Smith be calmly intimidating as the taller guy they had taken at the site giggled periodically and failed to say anything in the least useful.

“I can knock him around, Coulson. Get something other than Lewis Carroll out of him.”

“Or you can sit down and let someone with experience do it right.”

“I’d be okay with your knocking him around,” Clint muttered.

The guy screeched, “This will work too, don’t you see? The symbol of America, hero of the sheeple, regressed to his most basic instincts, rutting in the street, howling at the moon.” He howled, the three note bark and mournful wail of every coyote on national television and the palms of Clint’s hands itched to close around his throat.

“Will it kill?” Smith asked, quiet and still and not nearly as angry as Clint was. Tony leaned forward, his mouth tight and turned down.

“Why would we want to do that? Kill a man, make him a martyr. No, this will make a monster of a man.” He cut into another wild screeching laugh and Clint was suddenly glad he wasn’t in the room. His hands closed involuntarily into fists, but Smith sat patiently waiting for the guy to come back to earth.

“He had enough in that canister to flood the conference room. Prime Ministers and presidents of twenty three countries.”

“And make them monsters,” Natasha added from the corner of the room.

Clint rubbed the back of his head. “Define monsters, though. Transformation? Retro evolution-ray? Vampire gas? What other monsters are there? Werewolves …”

“You’ve been watching too many movies.”

“Shut up, Stark, we live in a movie. I'm just hoping the eventual aliens are more like ET than Predator." He glanced at the bank of monitors to the left. "Cap’s pacing again.”

“He’s also talking out loud. I’ve got the sound off,” the tech at the desk said. “It was bad, earlier.”

“Because he’s having so much fun now. Coulson, I’ve got tranqs. Let him sleep it off.”

“No, we can’t.”

“Why not?” Stark growled.

“Do you have a chemistry background?” Coulson asked.

“Neither do you.”

“No, but Pym does, and he says don’t tranquilize him. Unknown chemicals have unpredictable side effects.”

“Like what? Do you not see the holes in the drywall?”

“We cannot risk an interaction until we know what we’re dealing with. Give Pym …”

Clint heard the doorknob rattle and shoved it open. Hank Pym stood in the doorway, confused, one hand reaching forward, the other holding a clipboard stuffed with paper. Clint grabbed the edge of his lab coat and dragged him into the room. “Talk.”

“Okay, from what I can tell, we’ve got two stimulants, a hallucinogenic, that’s a boosted form of Methylenedioxymethamphetamine but this, this is … what?” he said to Stark’s hand in his face.

“What can we expect? Nouns and verbs only. No sentences.”

“Hyperactivity with serotonin --” Coulson cleared his throat and Pym trailed off, then swung the clipboard, as though trying to bat words out of the air. “Potential for paranoia and destructive behavior, inwardly or outwardly focused, and ....”

“Antidote?”

“Let it wear off. Shouldn’t take long. He’s got a remarkable metabolism and…”

“By long do you mean before or after the paranoid and destructive kick in?” Natasha asked.

Pym glanced at the monitor. Steve was sitting on the cot against the wall, rocking. “How reinforced is that room?” he asked.

“Enough to hold a normal human," Coulson answered.

Now they all looked at the monitor. “That’s not going to be good enough. Keep him distracted, the rocking behavior is disconcerting and could move to aggressive posturing or threat detection. “

“He’s in an empty room.”

“Doesn’t matter. He’ll react to what he perceives, not what's there.”

“He’s pacing again.”

Tony leaned over the tech and pulled a USB connector from its slot. ”Hang on, lean over to let me get at ... Scoot, no, other way... just get up. Get up get up. I can’t type with you in the way.” The keyboard clattered. “There.”

Clint recognized the first notes of Devil’s Dance Floor. “Is that the gym mix?”

“Yeah, see, Pym said distract which … you know what, long path. End result, association.” They watched Steve on the camera shuffle and shift, shadow boxing in a room with no shadows.

Clint blew out a breath. “Congratulations, Tony. You’ve triggered Pavlov’s workout.” Stark grinned back at him, then turned back to the monitor.

Natasha moved to the door. “I can’t sit here. I’m going to …” the door closed behind her.

“She’s unusually edgy.”

“We’re all edgy. And there goes the drywall again. So much for that distraction.”

“Pym? Transmissible by touch?”

“No, or at least, I don’t think… No, it must be ingested. If we can distract him, we may give him time to let him metabolize it out of his system.”

“I’ll go spar with him.”

“Tony, he’ll break you.”

“I can live with bruises.”

“You bruise when he’s pulling his punches and he won't be. I wish we had … “

Clint said, “Get Natasha.”

“I was thinking maybe Thor could go toe to toe with him.”

Clint shook his head, “Thor’s still tied up with Fury. She can dance with Steve.”

Stark crossed his arms and shook his head. “Not toe to toe. More like circles and sometimes over. Until she gets tired and he actually lands a blow. He’ll put her through a wall.”

“That takes anywhere from fifteen minutes to a half hour and you know it.”

Pym waved the clipboard. “No, you really don’t want Natasha in there with him. There is an overpowering aphrodisiac component to this stuff and …”

“Um, guys?” Stark tapped the monitor. Natasha stood inside the room, the door sliding into place behind her.

“I’m going to kill her,” Clint growled.

“Assuming he doesn’t,” Coulson said, and Tony winced.

“How disconnected is his superego right now?” Coulson asked as they watched Natasha move into the room, her hands away from her body and held low, carefully non-threatening.

“I _pegged_ you for a Freudian –“ Tony clapped and pointed.

“Like a balloon held by a toddler,” Pym answered.

Steve rocked, leaning forward and back, gradually getting faster, banging the cot against the wall hard enough for dust to shiver from the five holes he'd put in the wall beside it.

Natasha's lips were moving, but Tony had to turn the volume up for them to hear her. She was speaking a little too slowly, her voice soft. “We don’t have room for a foot race, but we could play tag, if you like.”

He reached out and she slapped his hand away. He grinned and lunged to his feet. She blocked the next blow, then kicked forward. He leapt straight up, made one strike at her collarbone, the second at her bicep. She blocked the first, barely dodged the second and mule-kicked him when he landed, sending him crashing back against the wall. He bounced, landed a strike against her left shoulder, spun her, then snaked one arm around her waist and pulled her up against him to hold her captive. She froze. Her shoes were six inches off the ground. He held her still, and breathed in so hard her hair fluttered against his face.

“No, no, we’re not… I don’t …” He dropped her and stepped away. She followed, stepping around him to put one hand on his chest, the other on his jaw.

Pym asked, “Is she doing what I think she’s doing?”

"You don’t get out much, do you?”

Clint frowned at Tony, who rolled his eyes and shrugged. He turned to Pym and said, “Sex can be a wea… a tool. It's always been a part of her arsenal.” Tony flicked his eyes toward him, then as quickly away, so he knew. Clint wondered who else in the room did.

Natasha brought her other hand to Steve’s jaw and he panted, stood frozen, his eyes closed and his hands shaking slightly. She leaned forward and kissed him. The image on the monitor blurred as he picked her up, crushed her to him, one hand on her shoulder, the other on her ass, then threw her against the wall. She rebounded off and dropped to one knee, wincing. He pressed himself against the far wall, murmuring, “I don’t know you. I don’t know you.” He slid to squat in the corner, rocking again, his eyes pressed closed.

Natasha eyed the camera and lifted one hand in question.

“Good thought, though," Coulson murmured. "If he doesn't recognize her, I wonder if he's forgotten the year. Perhaps... Do we have anyone available who resembles James Barnes?”

Clint started. “No. Natasha can handle herself, but you’re going to find some kid, throw him in with the Supersoldier and hope he and his bunkmate were more than buddies?” Coulson stared impassively at him. Fuck, of course he was. ”Coulson, no. Steve won’t forgive himself if he injures ….”

“Natasha’s …”

“Natasha’s trained! She was in control!”

“Our agents are trained,” Coulson answered.

Fuck this shit. He hit the door with both hands. As he strode down the hall, Coulson fed information into the earpiece he still wore by habit. “Most likely is Bucky Barnes, legal first name James. However, if that doesn't trigger anything, try Phillips, his CO or …”

“Shut up, Coulson. I read the damn comic books.”

\--::--

Natasha whispered “Be careful” as they passed. He didn’t laugh, but it was a near thing. He planted himself on the cot and flipped the bird at the camera.

“Hey Cap.”

Steve still crouched in the corner, his head between his knees. He looked up, then rubbed his eyes. “Bucky?”

“Yeah, Steve?” Clint answered in his natural voice.

“No, I’m … I’m sorry Clint, I thought you were someone else.” Steve pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “I think I’m going crazy. No, I’m not supposed to say crazy. The derogatory word list.”

“It’s just us in here, use the words you want.”

Steve barked a laugh that sounded like pain. “Words are not what I want. Hawkeye, I think there’s something wrong with me."

“That’s because there is,” Clint said.

“What?” He actually fell over, dropped to sprawl on the industrial tile floor.

Clint nodded. “Your heart’s racing, blood pressure skyrocketing. You’ve been hit with a…” Clint grinned, pretending ease while his nerves jumped. “ A something the chemists can pronounce and I can’t.”

“A poison?”

“Yup. ‘S why we can’t tranquilize you.”

“So why are you here?”

“The whosawhatzit hits hard. I’m here to keep you from hurting yourself.”

Steve made a fist with one shaking hand. “Will pain make it stop?”

“No,” Clint said, maybe a little too sharp. “It won’t. That’s why Tony pumped in the music, to make you dance. Activity should help. Pushups, whatever.”

Steve braced one hand against the wall and pushed himself to standing. He took a step and winced.

“That activity, too.”

Steve glanced sharply to the side where Clint sat leaning back with a leg drawn up and his hands around one knee. “You look like Bucky.”

“Yeah, I really don’t,” Clint said.

Steve started pacing again. “I thought … I thought Peggy was here. But she wasn’t and then there was …”

“Hallucinogenic, Cap. Natasha was trying to help.”

“Did I hit her? I think I hit…”

Oh, here there be dragons, Clint thought. He laughed out loud instead. “How many times have you sparred with her? Do you _ever_ hit her?”

“Thank god. I was ….”

“Whatever’s going on in your head, isn’t …

Steve started pacing again, but in a ten by twenty room, he looked more like a caged cat. “Pretty much nonstop blue movies, actually.”

That took Clint a second to parse. “Blue mov…? Oh! Pornography. Yeah, that’s um, actually that’s what’s supposed to happen. No inhibitions, libido amped up, let the cell phones and Youtube bring down the government.”

"That's ... cruel."

"The point. But the chemist says you can work it out of your system."

“How are you supposed to help with that?”

Clint wiggled his fingers. “I have good hands.”

“And you’re okay with this?” Steve stopped, facing away.

“I volunteered.”

“I have some trouble believing that,” Steve told the wall.

Clint rocked to his feet. "I'll grant, _my_ first thought was to shoot a horse tranquilizer into your ass, Natasha was plan B, so I'm C and Stark's probably rifling the first aid kit for KY as we speak."

"You say that like it's easy."

“Dammit, Steve, the suit doesn’t conceal a lot, but I would drop my drawers if it would help convince you. You’ve been dosed with a sex bomb; me, I’m just horn –“

He hit the wall like, honestly, like hitting a wall, and his head bounced off first that, then Steve’s skull. He shook the stars out of his eyes and then registered what Steve was doing. He could hear, though the earpiece, as Coulson said, “Stark, if you download any part of Tom Jones’ repertoire, I will be creative in making you unhappy.”

“How about Barry White?”

“No.”

Clint thought about yanking the earpiece out, then realized he could futz with electronics or he could run his fingers through Steve’s hair and encourage him to kiss him, so he did that, instead.

\--::--

“Clothes, too many clothes. Why are my buckles twisted?” He slapped one handed at the fastening on his uniform.

“I don’t care.” Steve hooked his fingers under Clint's collar and tugged.

“Supply is going to shit a brick if you actually manage to rip this with bare hands.” Steve smiled as the wire reinforced canvas parted like old cotton under his hands. Clint may have whimpered but lost it in the press of Steve's kiss. “You know that’s not going to work in reverse.”

“Kissing?” Steve panted and Clint grinned.

“I can’t tear your clothing off you. I value my hands. So if you …” He caught himself as Steve backed away, kicked both boots off, launching one into the sink on the far side of the room, and yanked his pants off. He stood in white tube socks and nothing else, his eyes wild, his lips wet, his hair mussed. “Right,” Clint continued. “That’s one problem solved without pissing off Coulson. C’mere.”

Steve stepped in to crowd him against the wall again, eager, flushed and disheveled, and Clint dragged his jaw across Steve’s collarbone. He wanted to record the moan that resulted. He slid his left hand down Steve’s back, tracing from his shoulders to his ass, cupping that and dropping his right hand to encircle Steve’s dick, hot, hard and heavy in his palm. Steve closed his eyes and put both hands on the wall to the side and slightly above Clint’s head. Clint stilled, but he didn’t let go. “Steve? You with me?” He waited to hear Steve call him Bucky again.

It didn’t happen. Steve dropped his hands heavily to Clint’s shoulders and pulled him close enough that Clint had to twist at the waist, essentially to hip check him, in order to give him room to slowly jack Steve as he murmured into Clint’s ear, “Clint. Hawkeye. Clint.”

Steve kept one arm over Clint’s shoulders like he was afraid he’d lose him if he didn’t and ran the other down Clint’s chest to grind his heel at Clint’s crotch where his pants were still, unfortunately, on, trapping his own cock painfully and providing no protection to an over enthusiastic hand. He winced and Steve froze.

“Did I hurt …” Steve lost the end of the sentence and any focus in his eyes as Clint twisted his thumb under the head of Steve’s dick.

“Enthusiastic, that’s all.”

Steve grimaced. "Sorry, I’m trying to be gentle."

"And I appreciate that."

"Doesn’t mean you have to be."

Clint tightened his hand and Steve threw his head back and shoved at him, pushing him into the wall again. Clint could feel the drywall give behind him, but more importantly, he could feel Steve in front of him start to shake. He dropped his other hand to run his fingernails under Steve’s sac and Steve threw his head back and keened, then pulsed over the back of Clint’s hand. They stood, breathing, Steve leaning on Clint, Clint completely trapped. Steve kissed his temple, then the top of his ear, then laid a trail of kisses down to the corner of his mouth. Okay, good, affectionate was better than the alternative, he thought. Any of the alternatives.

“Feeling better?” Clint asked.

“Still .. um.”

“But less than before?”

“No. Not much. Maybe?”

“Can I take my pants off for round two?” Steve scrabbled at Clint’s belt and Clint wiped the back of his hand off on his own thigh and stepped to the side. Maybe if he saved the uniform, they wouldn’t bitch as much about cleaning it. “My hands are steadier, okay? Hey! I’m not going anywhere.” He tugged at Steve’s hair and waited for a nod before flipping the buckle of his own belt.

Steve put both hands on Clint’s hips, rubbing his thumbs along his pelvis as soon as it was uncovered, then sliding his fingers under Clint’s waistband and shoving it down over his ass.

“Sorry, I just .. you’re shorter than me.”

“Steve, everyone’s shorter than you. Now watch, I’ll get even shorter.” He sank to his knees and licked the tip of Steve’s dick, bobbing in front of him. Riding a bicycle, he thought and swallowed as much as he could at once. Steve, above him, made an incredibly embarrassing high pitched noise and Clint regretted that he would never ever be able to tease him about it as he slid back, then forward again, and recognized his most recent strategic error as Steve twitched. Clint came off and coughed. “Okay, this is what we’re going to do.” He rocked back onto his heels as Steve pressed forward, then put his hand just under Steve’s navel and said “No,” in the sharp bark of the battlefield. Steve froze in place above him, his eyes and lips pressed closed. “Steve, I want you to back up. And you want to back up, because then we can continue.” Steve jerked backward two steps before the backs of his legs hit the edge of the metal railing of the bed. “You’re going to sit down and … right, like that and …” look like something out of a high end porno while I crawl on my knees to get to you, he didn’t say.

Clint closed his right hand around Steve’s cock again, sliding up and down more smoothly, and when he started to catch, using his mouth again, careful to keep his hand around the base of Steve’s cock this time. He laid his free arm over Steve’s hips, not so much to pin him as to give himself a little warning. Steve curled his fingers through Clint’s, both their hands resting at the top of Steve’s thigh.

“Clint?”

“Mmhmm?” Clint didn’t pull off when he answered and Steve bucked, so he waited a beat and did it again, then again. Steve whined and Clint felt the telltale twitching and pull and he backed off, grateful for the breather, letting his hands do the work in double time as Steve clutched at the cheap acrylic blanket beneath him. It tore as Steve arched up off the bed and came.

Clint put his head on Steve's chest and tried to ignore his erection. "You okay?" Steve asked.

"Yeah, you?"

"I can think again. Okay, still thinking about sex, but ..." He reached over and scooped Clint up and onto the bed with him, then curled around him like a possessive cat.

Clint wriggled to sit upright, at least, his ankles still bound, and eyed his boots. Steve ran one hand languidly up his back and snaked the other around to slide his hand up and down Clint's erection. Clint watched him. He'd been hard for so long he hurt, but this felt like crossing a line somehow.

"Why are you still dressed?" Steve poked at his uniform, shoved to his knees.

Clint rolled to lie next to him. "Those aren’t coming off without the boots first and they take time."

"Bet I can get them off faster."

Clint thought about the steel reinforcements in his boots and whether the bones of his feet would give way first. "Oh no you don't, these are broken in."

"Then I'll just have to be happy with what I've got." Steve rolled him without trying and knelt over Clint. His hair was tousled and the skin over his collarbone was red with beardburn from Clint's kisses and he shone like an angel of lust.

"Sorry, all you've got is me."

"All I want is you," Steve answered and he bent for another kiss. Clint gave that to him freely, and more, arching up into his hands as Steve ground his hips down.

"Round three, hunh?" Clint said with a grin.

“It’s just, it’s like an itch, under my skin.” Steve sat back, clawing at his forearm, and Clint pulled his hand away, fingers around Steve’s wrist.

“What do you need?”

“Anything, more. Let me touch you.”

Clint pulled him back down and guided his hand to their cocks, sliding his fingers between Steve's and encircling them both. Steve set too fast a pace and Clint gasped.

"God, you’re hot."

"Increased body temperature."

"What?"

"Side effect. Of the serum."

"I meant the twist thing."

"This?"

"Ah fuck, do that again." Clint shuddered, bit at the join of Steve’s neck, and came. He opened his eyes to see Steve wearing a smirk he must have learned from Tony, a half smile full of wicked intent. Or maybe that was just because Steve was still sliding his hand up and down Clint's softening cock and Steve's own hard one.

"You’re injured."

"No, I'm forty. It’s a refractory period. You seem to have left yours in that garage."

"Possibly in 1942."

"Can we test that when you are sober?"

"How's Friday?"

"I'll check my calendar, but you know where I live." Clint smacked the back of Steve's hand. "Let me go. You don't have to stop."

"By myself?"

"Am I going somewhere?"

"But..."

"Look at it this way, you can stroke as hard as you want, for as long as you want, as fast as you can. Meanwhile, I'm gonna do what I want to do," he ran his fingernails over one nipple and Steve missed a stroke, then doubled down. "And eventually..."

"Please."

Clint let his hand rest on Steve's bicep, where he'd been drawing lazy circles. "Please?" he repeated.

Steve's hand was moving at what would have been a punishing rate for anyone else, may have been even for him. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing raggedly. "Please ... kiss."

Clint lunged to oblige, cradling Steve's face, his skin sheened with seat, biting at his lower lip. Steve clutched at his shoulders in a spasm of need, then grunted and pulled him tight, too tightly. Clint could feel a warm splash at his waist and gentled the kiss, his tongue dipping between Steve's lips. Steve slid his hand around to cup Clint's ass and pull him close. Sticky, Clint thought, and he kissed his way along Steve's jaw, relishing the catch and burn of stubble.

Steve fell forward and Clint sprawled over him. He'd get up in a second, once the endorphin rush faded. Once Steve quit petting him. Okay, someday. He could feel Steve's heart under his ear. "Your heart rate's dropping."

"The inside of my skin doesn't itch anymore, either."

They lay in silence for a long moment, long enough for Clint to realize his ass was cold and he was thirsty.

“Wish I’d brought a bottle of water.”

"Never waste wishes. There’s a sink right there."Steve raised his head, then let it drop again. "With a shoe in it. Sorry about that.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Drinking directly out of the sink. Philistine.”

"Better than a puddle on the ground. You do what has to be done." He squirmed out from under Clint and slid off the bed.

Clint dropped his feet to the floor and sat up. Here we go, Clint thought. “Steve …”

“I appreciate your sacrifice,” Steve told the floor near the door.

“Not if you think it was a sacrifice.” He tugged at where his pants leg had twisted under his knee.

Steve paused, then said, slowly, "Okay, then I'm sorry that I didn't let you take your shoes off." He dragged his pants on.

"That, you can apologize for. My socks are squooshed around my ankles." Clint stood and drew his waistband over his ass.

"On the other hand, I suppose we had to save something for next time." Steve pulled his boot from the sink.

Clint glanced over, trying to keep the motion smooth, to hide the stiffness in his neck. “Are we ready for the scandal of bare toes on a second date?”

“You're right, we'd better take it slow. Keep the socks.” Steve smiled and Clint thought maybe they’d both survive this.

The door opened and Pym leaned in. “Blood draw?” Steve asked.

Pym blinked. “Is that _really_ your first assumption when faced with a man in a lab coat?”

“That and nurse’s uniforms. So what do you need?”

“Actually, I _would_ like to take some samples for testing, if you don’t mind.”

Steve sighed and followed Pym into the hall, fastening his pants as he went.

Clint hung back. He touched the earpiece's send button and said, “Natasha, do you own a turtleneck? You need to hide the bruises.”

“You too. Arnica, coltsfoot, and comfrey, my place, now.”

“Add a bag of ice and it's a party.” He let himself fall backwards across the cot.

-:-

Clint stood at the knock on his door, sliding the laptop to the side. He limped across the room, then deliberately straightened before opening the door. No need to remind the others that he was just human.

Steve stood on the other side. “You’re in sweats.”

“Uh, yeah. Ice pack and denim don’t mix. Why aren't you?" Not that Clint minded, but the khaki and button down look was a little formal and the sweater vest pushed it right over the top into Grandpa territory.

“You’re injured?”

“Where were you this afternoon?”

“Madison at 38th, with you and the rest of the team and a flying saucer from Latveria.”

“You do remember the jump from the second floor to the truck to the ground?”

“When you took out the engines?”

“Because _that_ was the relevant part to this conversation.” He limped back to the couch and stared at it, trying to decide if sitting down was worth the bending required.

Steve stood over him. “So, what are we doing this evening?”

His laptop went to screensaver. “Dunno about you, GQ, but I’m planning on dulling the pain of victory with cheap beer, catching up on email, and spending some quality time with my pillow.”

“Oh. Staying in would be nice, too.” Steve bit his lip, waiting for something.

Clint glanced at the bathroom door. The knee pain was bitchworthy, but not actually to the point requiring painkillers and he was damn sure he hadn’t even hit the Demerol. There was no reason he should be missing half this conversation. “I’m sorry, Steve, I’m lost here.”

Steve nodded and showed him the smile that came out for PR photos. “I, uh, I do have an explanation, but it can wait until morning. I’ll let you get some rest.” He headed toward the door and was a half step from it when Clint remembered. He threw the leaf-shaped blade so that it impaled itself in the jamb, only partially blocking the door. Steve stopped anyway, his hand on the knob.

“I wasn’t sure you were serious,” Clint said.

“I thought that was one of my faults, being serious all the time.”

“You gotta stop watching CNN.”

“And listening to Tony.”

“Steve, never listen to Tony. Ever.”

“Tony convinced me that what happened was .. that it wasn’t …” He closed his eyes. “That I should take you up on your offer. What I thought was your offer.”

“Tony is a wise man.”

"I'll tell him you said that."

"I have a better idea. Let's not."


End file.
